


What Makes A Monster

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Nudity, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: Traveling with Geralt of Rivia has been an eye opening experience for Jaskier. One of which, he hadn't entirely anticipated. Geralt had been many things to the bard, a friend, a companion, a trusted confidant, a makeshift bodyguard….-------Jaskier thinks about all the things that make Geralt unique and different from normal humans.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 504





	What Makes A Monster

**Author's Note:**

> This was a random idea that popped into my head late at night and I ended up writing it. Hopefully it sounds good. Please leave a comment as to what you think! Enjoy!

Traveling with Geralt of Rivia has been an eye opening experience for Jaskier. One of which, he hadn't entirely anticipated. Geralt had been many things to the bard, a friend, a companion, a trusted confidant,  _ a makeshift bodyguard _ ….

He was harsh and stoic and indifferent more often than not but remained devilishly charming when he wanted to be and always an honorable addition to any situation. He had an astute moral compass and a sharp intuition that could rival even the most potent tips of a Slyzard's claws. Keen eyes that read every twitch and tell in a man, and a nose that worked like a bloodhound sussing out the very fear that dripped in every drop of blood from a scoundrel's veins.

It was so beautifully terrifying to witness and many of these accounts had been immortalized in Jaskier's witty prose and long winded but ever so catchy ballads to be sung about in courts all over the Continent.

All of that came crashing together the day Jaskier had been swept away by a group of bandits to be used for some hair brained scheme of extortion and ransom. On that day, Jaskier had witnessed the truth in why witchers were such terrifying beings. Geralt had stormed the fortress like a one man siege, and promptly cut down every man foolish enough to draw a blade on him. Jaskier watched from the 'safety' of his cage with the other blindfolded and gagged captives bound up nicely like little presents to the boss upstairs.

The bard bore witness to the true fury of the Butcher of Blaviken as he cut them down into hilariously gruesome bite sized pieces. Which was nothing entirely  _ new _ for Jaskier. Geralt does such with drowners just about every other day after breakfast. He made quick work of the rabble, darkened eyes turned sharply to gaze at the door to the foreboding tower above as it burst open with the seething anger of the bandit leader. A man well shielded in heavy layers of armor that rivaled the bite of any blade.

He lunged at Geralt, clashing each blow with a parry, matching the witcher's skill with what looked to be cool ease but something was off. Jaskier could see it, even as his blindfold from earlier had only been knocked halfway askew. He rubbed it against the bars of his cage to force it the rest of the way off as it mussed up his hair comically. His pale blue eyes mapping out every step and pose Geralt asserted. It was cautious and calculating, he noticed. Geralt was leading the man away from the prisoners, urging him in a deadly dance of blades to angle around the crumbling ruins of a nearby wall. Jaskier adjusted his position to keep track of the pair until the man spit some unfathomable curse towards the witcher. His blade spun in a wide sweeping arch until it was knocked free just as Geralt formed a sign with his fingers.

A burst of red exploded from his fingertips, a powerful stream like a dragon's breath as igni was unleashed on the man. Where steel had failed to penetrate the carefully constructed layers of armor, flames licked at the vulnerable fleshy bits of the man's exposed limbs. His screams erupted violently as Geralt took a step back and watched him burn from the inside out. The leader choked out one final groan, a rustling breath scraping raspy in his throat past charred and bubbling lips. His eyes seared shut and cracked like flaky coal. His body crumpled in a heap unceremoniously, allowing Geralt to sheath his blade and search the remains for the keys to the prisoner cages.

Jaskier blinked owlishly up at the witcher in his approach. The cold look in those amber eyes softened before a flicker of something intense -  _ shame maybe? Fear? Did witchers feel fear?- _ darted across before vanishing behind that facade of indifference once more.

Jaskier didn't speak up on the situation, not as Geralt helped free him of his restraints and the well placed gag and gave him the keys to the other cages to help the rest of the victims. He cleaned up and dragged the remaining bodies to one pile to be burned before necrophages could catch a whiff of the fresh corpses.

It was a strange occurrence, one that hadn't left Jaskier's thoughts for weeks following. The cold indifference, the dark shadow that swallowed Geralt whole as he murdered those men without a touch of empathy. No words of warning, no demands for surrender, not a hint of mercy in the swing of his blade or the deathly glare he leveled on his opponents. It was unlike the Geralt he normally witnessed, albeit the man didn't always come running to his aid when Jaskier was at risk of being sold into slavery or murdered cruelly by axe or noose. The danger before hadn't been so dire in the past and Jaskier chalked that up to the extreme circumstances.

His worries faded as they moved on to another adventure. Weeks passed by and Jaskier had nearly forgotten the events of the bandit camp in those old elven ruins. He strummed sweet melodies on his lute and perched under the shade of an olive tree, listening to the beautiful cacophony of nature calling wondrously to him. The sun was warm and shining brightly in the endless blue expanse of the sky and the nectar of supple colorful flowers drifted to his senses like a fragrant beauty. They had stopped at a nearby Vineyard for rest and to restock supplies when the Vintner had rushed towards the witcher, pleading with him to help handle a monster problem.

Geralt's reputation had preceded him it seems as the witcher agreed and the man babbled on about the supposed monsters prowling his nearby investments. A small village that housed his workers was under attack by juvenile Kikimoras, an infestation was running amok in a field and one of the cellars was home to some unfathomable beast.

Jaskier haggled for them, securing them lodgings for a couple nights in the lavish guest house owned by the Vintner while Geralt handled the problems. Last night the witcher had fought the rabid werewolf that had taken over the cellar and he had burned away the infestation that had started to hatch in the fields the morning before. Today, he had headed south to investigate the village nearby. 

Jaskier hadn't heard any news for hours hut he bided his time, knowing the witcher would do his job to the last detail and ensure all would be safe. It was nearing supper time when the first shreds of news returned. It wasn't the witcher who had run through the front gates hollering delight, but instead an excited young boy who helped in the fields. He blurted jovially about the end to the Kikimoras and how valiantly the witcher had fought to end their scourge.

Jaskier frowned when the boy made no mention of how Geralt had fared in the end, driving the bard to hop on Roach with a slightly apologetic look, brushing fingers along her neck to beg forgiveness as he raced to the village to check on him. Concern driven deep into the pit of his stomach on instinct. Yes, Jaskier knew he shouldn't be running off to dangerous places but the boy had concluded that the village was safe now. So Jaskier was free to rush off to the  _ monster free  _ location in which his beloved witcher was supposed to be.

The sight he found instead was one that had him sliding off of the saddle to get a better look at. The village was a mess, compliments of the kikimora young and one very large parent that was now piled up outside of the gates and burning with the help of igni and some kindling. On the edge of town, a short distance from the fire, tucked against the crumbling old stone wall and nudged just between the roots of an old oak tree, was Geralt. He looked exhausted, his sword balanced carefully across his lap, one hand resting against the scabbard as the white wolf's head hung. He was glistening with sweat, his clothing sticking to his body and made tacky by the fight and the splattering of gore from the creatures slain. His pack sat beside him, left open still from where the witcher had cleaned his equipment before apparently taking a nap in the evening sun.

Jaskier watched as the few villagers, workers and farmers mostly, gathered in the center of the town and grinned delightfully at their homes. Their gratitude had extended to the cluster of eager villagers leaving gifts near the sleeping witcher. Bottles of wine, baskets of fruit fresh picked from the fields, smoked meats and cheeses, a few small coin pouches and baubles. Even handcrafted jewelry and a homemade doll left by two children who snuck their way as close to the witcher as possible. They shyly glanced around before setting the items next to his potion bag then scampered off quickly as if they would be caught or chased by the monster slayer. The bard caught the smallest twitch of the man's lips in a barely concealed look of amusement, though his eyes never opened, it was telling enough as is.

Jaskier perched on the stone wall and gazed fondly down at his witcher. A smile playing on his lips as he strummed a few chords and let the man rest with what peace he could obtain until the next job comes around. He played a song about a humble man and the many great deeds he accomplished. For all of Geralt's vast skills in this small hostile world, accepting gratitude was one in which he was amateur at best. Jaskier could already anticipate the sheepish expression to follow when night nears and they return to their room, toting with them the generosity of happy patrons. In the rare moments when such generosity exists towards Geralt, lacking the deceit and underhanded activities the man has grown so accustomed to, Jaskier found that Geralt was often puzzled and helpless in responding aptly to these gestures. And thus, playing the fool or in this case, the  _ sleeping man _ to avoid the awkward social situations.

Geralt ignored the bard when they had moved on for the evening. After a hot bath, a warm meal and settling down in an unfairly soft bed, Jaskier had poked and prodded the witcher with teasing words as they sampled the wine gifted so generously. Despite the lavish accommodations, they habitually slept in the same bed, with Jaskier tucked up against Geralt's side where the witcher could keep a better eye on the bard, even while they slept. Often times with one arm curled firmly around his waist, holding Jaskier close. It did wonders for the bard's sleeping habits as he listened to the steady yet so inhumanly slow heartbeat that thumped like the dying bells in some lonely tower. Distant and faint. A melancholy rhythm that Jaskier had often anticipated drifting to deathly silence. Once upon a time, this fear was real and had him waking suddenly in alarm when Geralt's pulse would quiet to the point of being imperceptible.

The witcher wasn't pleased at being woke up by Jaskier's frantic pleading. He slung an arm around the bard and pinned him to the bed roll with a tired and slurred "Go back to sleep, Jaskier." A low grumble that eased the bard's fears for the moment. That was years ago though, and now the steady yet quiet beat was a reassuring hum that accompanied the idle melodies that danced in Jaskier's head as he drifted towards that blissful realm of rest.

Jaskier was battered by all the little indiscrepancies that only further secured the knowledge that witchers were so much more than humans. They were otherworldly at times, yes. Inhuman, absolutely. But there were the little details that made them stand out against all else and Jaskier didn't mean their physical appearance or Geralt's growly disposition.

It came rather oddly, when they had spent the night in an inn. Geralt had been preparing for a contract the next morning so their night was meant to be a rejuvenating experience away from the hard earth and the cold chill of dew sprinkling their bed rolls in the mornings. Jaskier was eager for the cozy embrace of a soft mattress and the warm dip in a bath. The tub was rather large, which the bard relished in. But he hadn't placed much thought into it.

It wasn't until Geralt had returned from procuring some additional supplies for their trip after finishing the contract. The witcher was never fond of lingering long in one place. It made him itchy and unsettled, like something was coiled tightly beneath his skin and writhed at the lack of motion. Even while he rested, Geralt was anxious and restless after short periods. A detail that Jaskier hadn't quite deciphered yet but he was determined to do so eventually.

Jaskier tipped his head back, pale blue eyes turning to gaze up at the witcher curiously. His attention fixed on the man with a brief pinkish hue blossoming across his cheeks when he noticed Geralt appraising him softly. He raised a brow in question before he started undressing from his doublet and peeled out of the day's layers. Jaskier made a noise of surprise as Geralt promptly joined him, causing the bard to scoot his legs out of the way so Geralt could slide in. The heat rising in Jaskier's features as he formed a momentary protest. 

"You know we could always call for another batch of water?" Jaskier offered, thinking back to past occurrences which Geralt had been forced to share with him in the past due to limited resources.

"It's faster this way." Geralt growled out, proceeding to grab the abandoned soap that had fallen from Jaskier's fingers and began lathering his skin with intense concentration.

Geralt, for all his growling and posturing, was a very strange beast indeed. Jaskier had learned from early on that, while most folks saw sharing baths or bathing one another as a purely intimate, sexual or romantic activity. Witchers, or in his opinion, Geralt primarily, treated it as if it were not any different than sharing a bedroll for warmth and safety or riding on the same saddle to hasten their travels. It was a necessity for productivity and to conserve resources and time.

"Do all witchers have an absence of personal boundaries during bath time?" Jaskier's voice was teasing, earning a frown from Geralt who leveled that sharp gaze on his companion. He cocked a darkened brow in confusion.

"Not really. In Kaer Morhen, there is no room for shyness about one's body. That's how you get killed. Wounds need tending to, help is often needed to see this through and shame about physical appearances is non-existent." Geralt explained flatly. "The number of times Vesemir's had to patch me up, I can't even begin to count."

Jaskier hummed quietly, taking the wash rag and scrubbing at his arm in idle motion, averting his gaze away from the strong legs currently caging him into the opposite side of the bath. The well carved muscle and firmness was an enticing delight but he behaved himself for the sake of modesty. "What was that like?" Jaskier inquired innocently. "Were there many witchers around?"

"Quite a few in the early years when I had just received my medallion. It was busy and there was always a brother around to throw a helping hand in to work. We functioned the same way you'd expect for a farm or a fortress." Geralt explained, frowning momentarily in thought before he shook it away. "That was a long time ago. It's pretty empty now."

Jaskier's voice dropped a few notches in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Geralt shook it away and let the soap drift between them. "We've an early morning. Should get to bed soon."

"Of course." Jaskier hummed, finishing up and ignoring the full frontal Geralt allowed him as the witcher climbed out of the bath and shook the sparse droplets from his limbs. He stood before the fire and wrapped in a towel, setting to organizing their supplies while he air dried before pulling on a pair of clean trousers and a dark shirt.

Jaskier resumed their usual routine, wrapped around each other in sleep and settling in easily enough. His thoughts wandering about the small tidbits of life that Geralt allowed to slip past the cracks of his closely guarded defenses. He marvelled at the social difference bred into this fascinating race of warriors that never ceased to amaze or excite the bard and his ever growing imagination. Though, his thoughts had lingered on communal bathing that may have happened on a stronghold full of large dangerous and strapping men, marked and mapped in the trials of their lives, etched in flesh and bone.

Jaskier celebrated each triumph as it came, every morsel and scrap of information was beautifully memorized but not all came from the horse's mouth. Sometimes it came from something as simple as a mosquito nagging constantly in Geralt's ear. The bard had grown frustrated with the ambient buzzing that accompanied them as they trudged through the swampy marshes of drowner territory which also was apparently home to the daring winged pests.

The monotonous hum on his ears was mildly frustrating to Jaskier but he noticed quickly that the irritation only grew on Geralt's face as he shifted restlessly on the saddle. Several minutes ticked to half an hour, dragged on to an hour and they had cleared the swamp but that constant buzzing had followed them out and into the forest. Geralt's patience had worn thin as he dismounted from Roach and stormed along the dirt track with low snarls and barely formed grumbles and curses.

Eventually leading to the irate and annoyed witcher setting fire to some nearby kindling with a flash of igni and waving it around like a raving madman. Jaskier stumbled back in confusion as he watched the man stalk about angrily with Roach trailing behind, clutching what could be considered a makeshift torch that smoked back at them.

"What in gods sakes are you doing?" Jaskier blurted. 

"Getting rid of these fucking mosquitos!" Geralt countered in a low snarl. "All I can hear is their infuriating buzzing. I'm about to burn the whole damn swamp down." He hissed.

"I highly doubt that would handle your insect problem but feel free to give it a try. You might find some lovely drowners to take your anger out on." The bard offered pleasantly, barely concealing the smile of amusement as he met those furious golden eyes. No fear was felt at their dagger edged gaze, Jaskier knew the bubbling inferno was reserved solely for the hellions that flitted around the witcher's head ceaselessly.

"Shut it." Geralt blanched and carried on up the path with a disgruntled rumble in his chest. Jaskier chuckled fondly and followed behind him, amply reminded of the keen and inhuman sense of hearing that blessed (cursed) all witchers. He couldn't imagine how that must be like to live with. He was pretty sure Geralt could probably hear a cave troll fart from a mile away. A couple of mosquitos in his ears must have been horrendous.

Of course, with an increased sense of hearing also came the ever so lovely heightened sense of smell. Jaskier has been the bane of this sense many a time. So much so that Geralt had a list of fragrances the bard was not allowed to wear while accompanying him on his travels and Geralt had final say over most of his oils, perfumes and salves. The man was fussy and with acute taste but Jaskier found delight and enough of an excuse to drag the witcher shopping through the market early in the mornings to procure their next investment. Geralt would grumble, roll his eyes and cursed under his breath as Jaskier offered him one sample after another to scent with that keen nose of his and would wait for the man's approval or refusal.

"Why are you asking me this?" Geralt would ask after the fourth item thrust towards him haphazardly as Jaskier paws through the stalls and stands. 

"Because you complain about how I smell so I'm supplementing it with something pleasant."  _ For you.  _ An unspoken admission Jaskier refused to announce. Instead he'd smile coyly and hand Geralt another one, waiting for his response or for the witcher to get fed up and waltz off to look at horse tack or some other ridiculous interest that wasn't soaked in oils and fragrances.

Maybe he was baiting out what Geralt liked and what he didn't, that was none of anyone's concern but his own. If he could kill two birds with one stone, then so be it. The witcher was far too picky as it was, within good reason obviously. If Jaskier had a nose like that, he would probably do so as well. 

Especially given the fact Jaskier had discovered its many other talents besides tracking perfume and spilled wine or blood. It came the day Jaskier had been deep in his cups and was entertaining far too many bad ideas to be considered proper. His pale blue eyes fixed blearily on the witcher with a fondness he reserved for only his most extravagant muses.

Geralt turned a look of indifference his direction which only made his heart skip a beat like a lame drum. His head swooned with the prospect of his desires, or maybe it was the booze finally getting to him. Jaskier couldn't tell. Oh, but Geralt could. With that devilishly keen sense of smell, he could pick it up and did so with a curl of his lips and that low rumble in his throat that made the bard weak in the knees. 

"Jaskier." Geralt hissed, his nostrils flared with interest but his eyes spoke of some unbidden hunger below the surface. The hard line of muscle coiling beneath the surface, snagging a wandering eye from the bard as he quirked his lips in a teasing smile. His drink forgotten, lost to the haze of the candlelight in their otherwise dark little corner as he giggled and scooted closer. An unspoken request that the witcher seemed amused to grant. At least that's how Jaskier perceived it. Or maybe he was far too sloshed to be making appropriate assumptions. That was also a possibility. A very high one, granted.

Jaskier was weak and wanting and pliant beneath the witcher's touch as he reached out to steady the bard and his swaying posture. The nearly imperceptible whine that formed in his throat, all eager and desperate. Geralt ignored the upturned look the bard offered, baring his throat like prey beneath a ravenous wolf. He denied the urge to mark and bite the bard's supple neck and claim him as his own like the feral beast he was.

Instead, Geralt promptly scooped the ragdoll form up into his arms, careful not to jostle the inebriated musician anymore than necessary, gathered his lute from the bench seat and carried him back to their room. Yet another grand and positively chivalrous trait of the supposedly monstrous witcher was his undeniable ability to be decent. While Jaskier was so willing beneath his touch, Geralt was not one to strike at opportune moments of vulnerability. Simply stripping the bard down from his disheveled clothes and tucking him into bed like the dutiful companion Jaskier could always rely on.

Jaskier would look fondly back upon these moments, hangover or no, always capable of summing them up to something deeply satisfying. Geralt may be a monster and a mutant. He was certainly not like any  _ human  _ the bard had ever met before. But that simple fact did not make him any less or unworthy of being loved. Because, if Geralt has shown Jaskier one thing in all their travels in this wide, surreal and impossibly cruel world, is that the most terrifying monster can often times be the kindest and most beloved soul you will ever meet. And thus it was for Jaskier as he brazenly follows his beloved (monster) Witcher around.


End file.
